Hands
by TheGreenPaladin
Summary: A Pentilyet drabble. Josephine knows Cassandra as a lover, but sometimes she is reminded that she is also a warrior.


It was, Josephine knew, a foolish sentiment. She had known ever since she had first consciously decided to pursue Cassandra that she was a warrior, and that she fought and killed. She had known too that her particular brand of fighting was more direct, more up close and personal. Not for Cassandra the relative distance and detachment of an archer or a mage. She closed with her enemies, looked them in the eye as she dispatched them, their blood staining her blade and her hands.

She knew too that Cassandra's severe demeanour and occasionally volcanic temper concealed one of the softest of hearts. She was kind to almost everyone in a quiet, understated way that seldom drew attention, and with Josephine herself she was tender and gentle to a degree that would seem impossible to conceive to anyone who had not been privileged as she was to see the woman beneath the armour.

She had known this, had accepted it over the months of their slow courtship as she gradually plumbed the mysteries of Cassandra's heart, had known it the night she had finally claimed her devoted knight body and soul, had grasped her prize with fervent, heated touches as they fell into one another with a searing intensity Josephine had barely dared to imagine. She had known it over the months since, as infatuation and desperate need cooled and solidified into something stronger and deeper, forging a place where together they could make a home. She had known it, she had accepted it.

Or she thought.

She could still see behind her closed eyelids fragments of the battle. For all that she had remained safely at the forward camp, well protected and distanced from the actual fighting, she had been far closer than she had ever come since the attack on Haven to witnessing the violence perpetrated in the Inquisition's name. Closer too to her lover as she strode across the battlefield, commanding and imperious, in her element in a way she was so seldom in any of the settings Josephine normally encountered her. She was hard to miss even amidst the press of combatants, tall and proud, her sword flashing brightly in the sunlight, moving with the precise, spare elegance of a dancer. Josephine loved to watch her fighting in the practice yard, the subtle play of muscles beneath her skin, colour in her cheeks, the way her eyes seemed to light up with the challenge. But in the practice yard her sword did not draw blood, did not run a Venatori right through, did not sweep a man's head from his shoulders with a single movement both beautiful and horrible in its economy of execution. Nor did she leave the sparring ring with hands stained crimson, with blood and fragments f body parts still clinging to her armour, with the scent of terror and death infused into her hair and skin.

She shuddered slightly, against her will. She tried to keep these thoughts locked away inside her head, to stop them betraying her in moments like these, but Cassandra was perceptive, and her hands stilled where they combed gently through Josephine's hair.

"What's wrong," she murmured quietly, her arms dropping lower to fold Josephine more closely against her, a protective instinct that was normally reassuring, but instead just made her flinch even more. "Please… talk to me. You've been so quiet."

 _How can I tell you this? I don't want to hurt you. How can I tell you that I can't stop thinking that your hands, those gentle hands whose touch I normally crave, were only a few hours ago covered in blood and entrails and who knows what else. Those hands, that soothe and reassure and delight and bring pleasure, are also a tool of death, and destruction. Those hands inflict pain, and take lives, and while I know perfectly well that it is for a good cause, it's still horrifying and brutal and terrible._

"Please, tell me," Cassandra urged again, a finger under Josephine's jaw carefully lifting her chin until she couldn't avoid her amber gaze. "You should know by now there's nothing you could tell me that could ever make me turn away from you."

"I know… " Josephine half sobbed. "It's ridiculous, and foolish, but I can't help it. It's just… the fighting today. I was watching you, and I know it's what you do, but today it was real, and it was right there, and it was awful."

"Ah." As if she had somehow divined Josephine's earlier thoughts Cassandra rolled over onto her back, raising her hands and turning them over, studying them in the candlelight. "I understand. Your lover is a killer, and that can be hard to reconcile. You feel as if you should not love someone who does such things."

Cassandra's gentle understanding only made it worse. "It's not even that. It was the way you touched me, and I couldn't stop myself thinking about all the things you do with your hands, like how at one point that Venatori got stuck on your sword and you had to stop to pull him off… and for a moment it made my skin crawl, and I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. It's stupid and irrational and it doesn't change the way I feel about you at all." Josephine rolled away, covering her face in her hands, dismayed at how badly she was struggling to explain herself.

There was a long silence, then Cassandra's voice came again, low but insistent. "Josephine, look at me."

She was powerless to resist. Josephine wondered briefly exactly when she had allowed Cassandra to assume this degree of command, but she could not deny this woman anything. If she had expected to find sadness or reproach in her lover's eyes though she was proved wrong, for they shone with nothing more than the same steady constant affection she had come to depend upon.

"These hands," she held them up again, stretching them out towards Josephine," have indeed taken many lives. They have been stained with the blood of my enemies, _our_ enemies. They have made fists, have left bruises, they have wielded swords and shields, clubs and knives. Yet they have also held books and quills, they have dressed wounds and offered help to those in need, held a new-born baby and felt the softness of his cheek. These hands have been clasped in prayer, offered in friendship, have soothed and reassured, have traced a lover's body and held her close in my embrace. They are but a tool, and you should know that these hands will never, ever, bring any hurt or harm to you."

Josephine blinked back tears, feeling foolish and ungrateful and above all loved beyond measure. With trembling fingers she reached out for Cassandra, clasping her palms, planting gentle kisses across each knuckle, offering a wordless apology. "I said it was ridiculous. You must excuse my silliness, it is too easy for me to judge others for being willing to do what I cannot."

Cassandra's soft smile was a balm that took away any remaining sting of guilt. "Your aversion to violence is not something to be ashamed of. It is one of the things that drew you to me, my love." She reached out once more to run her fingers down Josephine's shoulder and this time she rejoiced in the sensation. "You and I, we complement each other nicely, do we not?"

"I suppose we do," Josephine murmured assent, moving closer to her lover's warmth.

"Well, now we have put this _foolishness_ to bed," Cassandra chuckled, her voice low and rich and laden with promise, "I will show you how else I can use these hands."

This time, Josephine did not flinch.


End file.
